


Invisible Distances

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Blind Character, Catholic Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Lawyers, Misunderstandings, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy has been treating Matt differently since the revelation of his vigilante-activities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invisible Distances

When they're in college, it takes Foggy very little time to catch on. Matt's always sort of marveled at that, really.

It first happens when they're sitting with a group of three other people. “That crazy professor in the Spanish department – oh, but you know her, right?” Matt asks.

“...You can't tell, but she just nodded,” Foggy says cheerfully.

“Oh! I'm sorry,” the girl starts.

“It's fine. Anyway, yeah, she keeps talking about running into another professor on 'vacations'. Apparently last summer they met on a _beach,_ and I don't even want to think about it.”

One of the others makes a sound. But it's Foggy who says, “This? This is my disgusted face. I do not need to picture professors  _with each other_ on beaches, Murdock, get out of my brain.”

Some people think Foggy talks too much; maybe, aside from his bluntness, that's one of the things which allows them to be such good friends. Without the stimulus of sight, Foggy's voice has become one more thing that colors the world.

So it's almost physically shocking, when these colors start to drain away – deliberately and sharply – from his life.

* * *

 

At first, he just thinks Foggy's upset.

Which is understandable, really. In the wake of the masked-man/Daredevil revelation, he probably _is_ still a little upset. Maybe this is even part of it, at first, an unconscious way to distance himself from Matt. The thought hurts. But Matt can't really say it's unjustified.

But after Fisk is behind bars, they seem to be doing better. Foggy may never be fully comfortable with his friend's nighttime activities, but he has also openly shown support for Daredevil, and their friendship is starting to repair itself. During their first case since the arrest, though, Matt starts to wonder.

The widow they're representing has come to see them for a relatively clear-cut matter. Her store has been damaged in a robbery. Cameras have caught the perpetrators on film in clear detail, but one of the robbers happens to be the son of a politician who, the women suspects, is the reason her attempts to file charges are being blocked.

“Rich, too,” she says. “Probably paying off the system, and meanwhile I can't even make repairs - “

“Why would a rich heir rob your store, Mrs. Ortez?”

“He's eighteen and stupid,” she says with disgust, which, well.

“And you've taken this matter to other firms previously, who have refused to take the case?” Matt asks.

A long silence stretches on. But Ortez's heart seems relatively steady – only the usual stress of the situation is affecting her. So why -

“So maybe they were paid off, or threatened?” Foggy wonders suddenly, and Matt thinks, ah. She's nodded, and he's missed it.

He stretches his awareness, focusing on the heat emanating from their bodies, the coil of sound around every obstacle. Her shrug is noticed this time. “I wouldn't know,” she says. “But it wouldn't surprise me.”

When it comes time for Mrs. Ortez to show them the video – she's helpfully brought along a cd that Foggy slides right into his laptop – Matt leans back and twists his fingers around his cane, listening closely.

There's a low hum of static. A patter of what might be footsteps. Crunching. The distant echo of heartbeats, and a million rubbed-out background sounds – all irrelevant. More important, but still hard to understand, are the whispers that come through sounding grainy and soft. Even Matt strains to catch these clipped syllables, and the others probably find them incomprehensible.

_“Here – before they – get going – not... one...”_

“Do you see?” asks Mrs. Ortez triumphantly. The noise from the video stops abruptly.

“Oh, yeah,” Foggy says. “How can anyone deny that? I - “ a pause.

Then, almost confusedly, Foggy announces:

“...They're looking right at the cameras, Matt.” More confidently, he adds, “With dumb smiles on their smug little faces – the picture's perfect. We can identify all three of them with this, easy. Don't worry, Mrs. Ortez, we'll take care of everything.”

“Oh, bless you. Both of you.”

Foggy addresses him after Mrs. Ortez leaves. “So I guess even your abilities don't let you 'see' what happens on a screen, huh?”

Matt starts. “What? Oh – no. I mean, I hear some things other people don't, but – that's it. And these days there's so much editing in movies, and sound-control, even that doesn't mean much most of the time.”

“But for something like this?”

Matt purses his lips, shaking his head. “Nah.”

“Huh. I'll keep that in mind.”

He does, too.

Suddenly, there are more words. When they're walking down the street the next day – off to investigate one of the people Mrs. Ortez is accusing – Foggy suddenly says, “Matt, we are walking next to the worst billboard right now, and I think you should be aware of this, because it's actually comically bad.”

“What's on it,” says Matt, playing along.

“It's for a – restaurant? Restaurant, yeah. It says, 'we're like a cult – but with better Kool-Aid.'”

“...No.”

“There's a little martini and a flag that says 'to die for!' next to it.”

_“What.”_

Then they're laughing, and things almost feel normal. But Matt wonders.

Foggy starts telling him these things again – information on screens, the colors of the sky (or the color used to dye the hair of hipster teens) – like no time has passed. But nothing is the same, and suddenly, Matt understands.

Foggy hasn't been neglecting to narrate things, refusing to speak to Matt like he would before, as a way of snubbing him. With the revelation of Matt's time spent as Daredevil, he seems to simply accept that Matt can already 'see' everything as well as – if not better than – himself.

(He really doesn't understand at all.)

* * *

 

At night, Daredevil runs effortlessly over the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like if he'd grown up in any city but New York, with both it's soaring buildings and its penchant for rearing masked vigilantes. This latter factor may, admittedly, have helped motivate his own transition to the fighting lifestyle. It certainly wasn't a deterrent. But it doesn't really matter; Hell's Kitchen is his natural environment. On nights like this, when the wind is slow and the air is clear, he can hear for miles. He can hear everyone, everything.

Like the group of petty Yakuza underlings three blocks away, ready to kill a group of 'traitors' for... well, he doesn't really care, but the police will after he's through with them. They can sort out the mess.

There are seven people when he drops down – four would-be executioners and three 'traitors'. In a perfect world, the traitors would help him or at least surrender, and the others would be his only opponents.

Naturally, in Hell's Kitchen, they all take one glance at his mask and raise their guns.

He knocks two down with the first sweep of his billy-clubs, somersaulting away from the resulting spray of bullets. A dumpster makes for a hasty, unpleasant cover. A barrage like this can't last forever. He attaches his sticks together to form one long staff, then waits impatiently as the shots slow down.

He catches one more member around the waist when he lunges from his hiding-place, and thwacks another on the head while dodging bullets. But one of his first victims is starting to rise groggily, and as reaches out to slam this man back against the ground a searing pain burns over his forearm.

He ignores it.

The last three men are taken out swiftly. He calls the police anonymously, then departs almost as quickly as he'd arrived.

This time, though, he's headed back to his apartment. He should probably make sure there's no bullet fragments in his arm.

* * *

 

“Did you go out last night?” has become Foggy's daily catch-phrase.

Matt doesn't ever pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”

“Injuries?”

“Bullet – just a graze,” he adds, as Foggy's heart-rate noticeably jumps. “No big deal.”

“...You have a very distorted notion of 'no big deal',” Foggy says finally. “I think you take that Catholic suffering stuff a bit too seriously sometimes, Matt.”

Matt doesn't bother defending himself; Foggy will be unhappy if he comes back with so much as a scratch, so there really isn't a point. It would be nice if the jabs at his activities would lay off for just one day, though. But he can hardly blame Foggy for being concerned.

At the office they work on the Ortez case, looking over files for anything suspicious. Technically, Karen is usually the one to battle with the (definitely not possessed, Foggy) printer, but today she's involved in an increasingly heated argument with some wannabe-politician who thinks money and a title means he has a right to be represented by Nelson&Murdock, despite the rather dubious ethics of his defense.

Granted, Matt isn't sure why anyone with money and power would _want_ to be represented by them, but...

As Karen hisses, “And  _another thing,_ you pompous ass - “ over the phone, Foggy snorts and trundles over to the printer. The pressing of some buttons – and a couple of well-placed, much louder thumps to the stubborn machine – eventually yields results. He drops a few sheaths of paper on Matt's desk as he passes.

It's only when Matt pulls the papers in front of himself, running his fingers across the top of the page, that it sinks it that Foggy has printed these pages with  _ink._

He can read it; this is true. In fact he thinks he's mentioned the fact to Foggy, almost in passing. He wonders if this is some passive-aggressive punishment for, well,  _being shot._ Which doesn't exactly seem fair, but 'being stupid' would probably be how Foggy might phrase it. 

It isn't exactly  _easy_ to read ink, is the thing. His fingers stutter slowly over the almost-smooth paper. He feels a twist of anger flare in his stomach – then die, abruptly.

Concentrating, he starts to drag his fingers along the page, quicker and quicker, until he thinks he can almost look natural.

If this gives Foggy some bizarre satisfaction, well, fine. There are worse things that could happen between them. Foggy is still here, after all. He'll have to be content with that.

* * *

 

Matt is fortunate to have met a man like Father Lantom, despite his initial wariness. The church is a part of his identity – of  _both parts_ of his identity, even, both the man and the devil. A good priest can mean a lot, and Father Lantom is an exceptional one.

And very understanding.

“I feel like something is troubling you,” he says to Matt.

“I just finished telling you about all the people I've beat up lately,” Matt says. “Most people would think that's enough.”

They're not sitting in a confession booth. There's little point in the facade, Lantom says, when he would know Matt by both voice and sins and Matt can't see Lantom anyway. The real reason, of course, is much more complex.

Sometimes Matt wonders how much Lantom is a friend – how much he accepts and understands the grim challenges Matt faces – and how much he is a particularly dutiful clergymen, attending to the devil among his congregation with special care; with quiet talks instead of rote confessions, with philosophy, mutual exchanges. Sometimes it troubles him. Sometimes, though, he just lets himself be grateful.

They're drinking coffee out of delicate ceramic cups, alone as is often the case. The church always seems to be empty when Matt arrives to talk, though by fashion or accident he isn't sure.

“I'm not sure where I stand anymore with Foggy,” he says finally.

“Is this a moral problem, or a personal one?”

It's a clarification, not a judgment.

Matt considers this question, gripping his coffee and running his fingers along the cup's smooth surface. “I can't tell if it's deliberate or not,” he says at length. “But I feel like I'm being selfish, demanding anything of him.”

“What are you demanding?”

“What am I _not_ demanding?” Matt tightens his grip. “I pushed him into making our firm. Dragged him to Hell's Kitchen with me. Now that he's here he's associating with me – knowingly – that's a crime. I give him stress every day when I get injured. And I make him... doubt...”

_Was anything between us ever real?_

Matt pauses. “...He always seems to be the one who's there for me,” he says, lowly. “I don't want to feel like that. To make someone do that. To take, and never give.”

Lantom is silent for awhile. It's hard to tell what his response is; Matt doesn't feel like concentrating on his face, his body language, the minutiae of expression. At length, the man says, “I'm not so sure that's what's happening here. More importantly, it sounds to me like you're not forcing him into anything.”

“He's my friend. What else can he do?”

“He is your friend,” Lantom says. “And a very good one – willingly. Maybe you should remember that, sometime.”

* * *

 

When they walk together, now, Foggy often stands with a foot of space between them, sometimes placing himself on Matt's right side – the side he uses to hold his cane. It is disorienting in more ways than one. Foggy always used to walk on his left, partially out of habit, mostly to offer an arm to guide his friend if necessary. The change, then, is conscious and deliberate.

They don't discuss this, either, and Matt starts to think that maybe there are a few too many things going unspoken.

* * *

 

Sometimes it's difficult to admit, even to himself, how much he misses some of the old dynamics of their friendship.

He's not going to ask Foggy to change anything, of course. What is he supposed to say? “Lead the way – tell me what people are doing – I miss it? I don't need it, but I miss it?”

Foggy doesn't want to do that, surely, and Matt has no right to ask it of him.

Although, okay, he should probably at least mention the braille thing. Reading ink with his fingers is doable, but not pleasant, and it takes more than twice as long. They have a braille-printer. If nothing else, he can say Karen might notice him reading text and get suspicious. He should say something. He should.

(He doesn't.)

* * *

 

Matt wakes up with a migraine one Wednesday morning and can barely hear himself _think._

He stubs his toe walking to the kitchen and thinks somewhat morosely about how he'd been beating up muggers the night before, doing full-on acrobatics that would impress Olympic gymnasts. Now he opens up a container of ground-coffee, and the strength of the smell makes his head throb. He doesn't want to move, or extend his senses enough to do – anything, actually.

He really hopes he doesn't meet any criminals on the way to the office.

He can never  _quite_ turn his senses off – not completely – but he ignores them, turning the world into a blur of sounds and scents as he walks down the street. If people stare, he doesn't realize; he could be going the entirely wrong way, but he isn't. There's something strangely reassuring in this, too, arriving at his destination and knowing that even while muting his 'abilities' he is perfectly capable – at least, capable of achieving ordinary tasks.

He wonders occasionally if he ever could have learned to fight without his abilities. Stick wouldn't have taught him, most likely; he would not hear the distressed cries and pleas that ring through Hell's Kitchen at all hours, motivating him in the first place.

Somehow, he thinks the devil would have found a way out, anyway. 

But today such impulses are distant at best. He's glad to arrive at the familiar layout of Nelson&Murdock, but by the time he steps inside Foggy is throwing on a suit jacket.

“Good timing,” he says. “Come on, we're going to hunt down a witness. Name of Leonard Jackson. You can do your... umm...” he seems to stumble. “...You're good at telling when people are lying,” he recovers finally.

Karen is typing away steadily at her desk.

“Ah, right,” says Matt. “Sure.”

It's still misty and dewy outside, but not raining, which is horrible; sounds are muted by the thin layer of water without even the bounce of rain for him to use as guidance. The scent of dampness pervades everything, too.

They stop at an intersection and Matt doesn't bother to tap the pushbutton that will state aloud the condition of the light, instead waiting as Foggy says, automatically, “Just turned colors.” He waits longer until Foggy adds, “Turned again,” and starts to move.

“Matt, watch out!”

A hand grips him tight around the shoulder, then tugs him back.

He falls hard against another body, stumbling as the roar of an engine flares and dims just feet from his position. Sudden clarity makes him realize the precariousness of his position.

He finds steadier footing, then almost looses it when Foggy grabs his shoulders and shakes him.

“Jesus, Matt,” Foggy barks. “The fuck were you thinking? Didn't you see that car?”

It doesn't take someone with heightened senses to detect a sudden, awkward downturn of conversation around them.

“I'm fine, thanks for asking,” says Matt dryly. 

Angrily, Foggy shoves Matt's cane back into his hands, then grips his elbow, tugging him away. It's not at all the appropriate way to lead a blind-man, but that doesn't really seem to be his intent so much as getting Matt somewhere to talk privately.

“The fuck was that,” Foggy hisses, presumably once they're alone. “A car, Matt, that couldn't have been more loud, how didn't you notice a car?”

“I wasn't paying attention.”

“It was a  _car!”_

Matt sighs. The near-accident is, in fairness, unnerving; he reluctantly focuses on the sounds around them, bringing the chaos of the city into sharp relief. Foggy seems to take form and shape in the darkness, but he winces as his head throbs anew.

Better a headache than splattered on the pavement, at least. Foggy's right.

But his friend seems to have noticed the wince. “Are you sick? Hurt?” Foggy pokes at Matt's abdomen suspiciously, like this will reveal some hidden wound.

Matt swats at him. “If I were, screwing with the injured guy would hardly help. But, no, I'm not hurt.”

“Are you  _sick?”_

“It's just a headache,” Matt sighs. “It's hard to focus. Harder than normal.”

And, okay, maybe he's tired, and sore from being punched around the night previously – Foggy doesn't need to hear that, though. These probably fall more under the category of 'personal problems'.

Thanks to his newly-concentrated senses – and Foggy's hand, still on his arm – it's easy to detect the other man's sudden stillness.

“Harder than normal? So, what, you can't 'see' things all the time?”

“Sort of,” Matt says. “I told you this, when you first... – well, remember? I have to focus, and no one focuses all day. And it's easier at night, too. There are less distractions.”

“Not to mention adrenaline from being shot at,” Foggy mutters, half-hearted.

“Well, yeah, that too.”

Foggy is quiet for awhile. His breathing is disconcertingly slow. 

“...Foggy? You're not hurt, are you?”

“...I think we should go back,” Foggy says tersely, without answering the question.

Matt, after a moments pause, lets himself be guided back the way they've come. Some days, it's just best not to argue.

* * *

 

Karen has left for lunch, and the headache is still there. Matt reads a full paragraph of text before realizing he hasn't absorbed any of it. He starts again from the beginning, reads one line, and is still lost. He traces his fingers slowly over the same line, again and again.

“Matt.”

Matt pauses. A quick flash of awareness lets him know that Foggy is facing his direction, probably looking at him. “Yes?”

There's something tightly constrained in Foggy's tone. “Do you have to 'focus' harder to read ink?”

“Yeah.”

A beat. Then, tremulously: “You know Matt, you can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“What?”

“Why the hell didn't you just say something!” A chair scrapes back. Foggy's on his feet. “Christ, I've been handing you these things for weeks, and you just – I thought - “

“You thought what?”

“I don't know, okay! It's just, you always say you want to be treated like everyone else. So, okay, great, I thought. You can 'see'. I thought you'd be happy, if I  _did_ treat you like everyone else. I thought - “

“I'm still blind, Foggy. What you're talking about is a little different from - “

“Yes! You're blind! Look at you, being blind!” Matt blinks. “But I'm an idiot, okay, so why didn't you  _say something_ when I was being ridiculous?”

“I... assumed you were doing it on purpose?”

“You  _what?”_

“I thought you were still a little mad about me, well, bleeding all over the place. And, ah, moonlighting as a vigilante. That sort of thing.”

“You thought I was – and, what, you were just going to  _take_ it? Like some good Catholic whipping boy?!”

No. Suddenly, Matt's on his feet. “What else was I supposed to think?” The sudden anger in his voice seems to shock Foggy into silence. “You remind me of it every day, Foggy, and I know... I know what I do isn't safe, alright, I know it's not legal, you think that hasn't  _occurred_ to me? That I haven't  _considered_ alternatives, or, or just not doing anything?”

“You - “

“I never wanted to fight! I was never  _supposed_ to fight - “

“You love fighting - !”

“And that just makes it  _worse!”_

They both stop, and the room is silent except for the sound of harsh breathing. Suddenly, Foggy exhales a long sigh. “I don't – I don't know what I'm supposed to –  _you're_ the one who goes out to fight crazy people at night, Matt.”

“I'm not blaming anyone for that. I'm not.”

“Then - “

“All I'm saying, is: do you have to make it harder than it has to be? Because, I promise you, I get enough guilt-tripping between myself and my priest.”

“Okay, okay. No more... guilt-trips.” A pause. “...Unless you specifically ask for my advice, in which case - “

“In which case I probably deserve whatever I get,” Matt mutters, and Foggy huffs a tired laugh.

“Not arguing there.”

Matt sighs. “What I meant in the first place was, I understand if you're – tired, or just plain sick of dealing with...everything. Helping the blind guy you got landed with in college.”

“Hmm. Well. No.”

“...Ah, no?”

“See, that's not how actually how it works. What happens is, you take advantage of my eyes, and I take advantage of your ridiculous abs to do the heavy-lifting when Karen isn't looking.”

“I knew you only loved me for my body,” Matt tries.

“Damn straight,” Foggy says.

Then, his voice abruptly drops the mocking tone.

“But – come on, Matt. Seriously? You're my friend. That's not some – some burden. If I can help you, I will, and I'll be happy about it, and you'd do the same for me.” Foggy sucks in a breath. “I mean – you say something like that again, I'm going to have to learn some serious Kung Fu just to kick your ass, Murdock.”

Matt laughs.

“Besides,” Foggy continues, “Now that I'm friends with a superhero - “

_“Vigilante - “_

“ - I fully expect my life to be at least ten times more exciting. If I don't get to play damsel to your hero at least once, the comics will have severely disappointed me.”

“Even I know you're not pretty enough to be a damsel, Foggy.”

“Crush all my dreams, why don't you.”

* * *

 

They're walking to see Mrs. Ortez when Foggy nudges his elbow, very lightly, against Matt's left side.

“Hey. You want to take my arm?”

Matt doesn't need it. He feels more alert than he has in days, and the path before him sings with clarity. But the offer sounds almost familiar – and very welcome.

“Thanks,” he says, and reaches out his hand.

And he's glad that his senses are so responsive today; it makes it easy, even for him, to gain a sense of Foggy's brilliant smile.

 


End file.
